


Dostoyevski's Tea

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atTER/MAand was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address onthe TER/MA collection profile.This originally appeared in eXposure, the X Files fanzine.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Collections: TER/MA





	Dostoyevski's Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> This originally appeared in eXposure, the X Files fanzine.

  
**Dostoyevski's Tea  
by Jane Symons**

  
He staggered out of bed in the twilight to go to the bathroom. On the way, he peered out through the curtains, looking across the road to Lesotekhnicheskoy Park. It was snowing again, plump flakes that danced in the wind for a while before falling silently to the ground.

"Damn the snow." He hated it. The trouble with snow was that going out and shooting it made no difference at all. He believed he hated snow more than anything else. More than being pinned up against bathroom walls by strange French women, even more than being made to give back digital tapes by something that was swimming around his nervous system. Why then was he living in a country where snow kept happening to him with sickening regularity? It made no sense. "Damn every bit of it to hell," he said helplessly.

Boris laughed at him from under the bedclothes. Alex Krycek sighed and carried on to the bathroom. 

* * *

Incredible the things you could get to say in Russian. Take some examples from The Dictionary of Russian Slang and Colloquial Expressions: "So it was you who took my tools, you bastard", and then a few pages further on: "If you're afraid of teeth, you'll never get a blow job".

Mulder shook his head in amazement. The phrase book gave him two translations— one using the indecipherable Russian alphabet, the other with the Russian set out phonetically. He mouthed the unfamiliar sounds to himself as he read them, trying to get his tongue and teeth round them. They felt cumbersome and alien. He noticed a woman sitting in the opposite aisle of the plane, staring across at him anxiously as if he might be about to pop an artery or throw a fit. Let me tell you, lady, if I ever really had to learn to speak this stuff, I'd throw something a lot worse.

How did Krycek manage to speak this language without the need to vomit at the same time? And while on the subject of Krycek, was there a Russian equivalent of "You fucking bastard"? Indeed there was, he'd try memorising it as long as his jaw wasn't dislocated in the process. Swearing in another language had a certain je ne sais quoi to it. Mulder wondered if there was a Russian phrase for je ne sais quoi but caught himself just in time. That way lay madness. He could drive himself slowly out of his mind looking up the Russian for every thought he had between New York and St Petersburg. The average human brain is supposed to produce several thousand different thoughts each day and on this flight alone he could chalk up hundreds of them. Why was he even having this thought about having thoughts? Why was he doing this to himself? Was there a doctor on the plane? Could someone please administer general anaesthetic for a few hours of mind numbing peace?

It was strange travelling to St Petersburg alone. This was the second time he'd made the flight in a month and he had to admit that the first time had been a lot more interesting. Slender thighs next to him in tight black jeans. The smell and creak of leather. Mouth slightly open as he slept. Thick eyelashes cascading over high cheekbones. Fucking bastard.

This time round, Mulder felt uncomfortably vulnerable, even though he knew from the previous experience that he could manage the basics like passage through customs and hiring a car. He'd bought the book of Russian slang at JFK International as a kind of gesture of defiance although he knew it was irrational to feel angry with an entire country just because two members of the population had produced a treacherous, lying, murdering piece of filth.

The plane arrived at St Petersburg half an hour late due to bad weather conditions. It was snowing heavily. Mulder passed through customs without incident and took a taxi to Autotur car hire situated on the Energetikov Prospekt. He felt grateful for the time in the taxi to adjust to his surroundings. Through the telescoped vision afforded by the taxi window, he saw enormous and impressive buildings, some of them turning shabby, people looking drab and depressed in the snow storm, street sellers everywhere displaying vegetables, books, vodka, kittens. Everything and anything seemed to be on sale on the streets.

He wondered whether Krycek liked living here or whether he just had nowhere else to hide. The e-mail message Mulder had received gave an address on Murinsky Prospekt. Alex Krycek was reported to be using a friend's apartment there. Typical Krycek, never putting down any roots, ready at any time to disappear into the woodwork.

Mulder would have felt easier in his mind if he knew who had sent the message. It was either someone who wanted Krycek killed—and that must be a good 95% of America, Hong Kong, France and Russia, almost half the globe when you came to think about it— or someone who wanted Mulder killed. It wasn't nearly as much fun working out the percentages of how many people were out to get him so Mulder quickly thought about something else. He relaxed back into the seat, putting finishing touches to the 'Why I Hate, Loathe & Detest Alex Krycek' list that he kept carefully filed away in his mind.

* * *

A sunny little kitchen. It's Mulder's. He's standing at the stove singing "I'm Cooking Brekfist For The One I Love" from a Fanny Brice musical. Sometimes I seriously worry about Mulder. I walk in, scratching my nipples and yawning as I usually do first thing in the morning and he says, "Hi baby, did you sleep well?" as if he's interested in the answer. I say, "Fine. Give me a kiss," and it's so good to have his arms fold round me...

"Alexei!"

Damn.

He hated that moment when a happy dream was shattered and reality hit him over the head with a loaded sock. Gradually it became horribly clear to him that he wasn't in Washington and neither was he in Mulder's cosy little apartment. He was lying in a dismal brown Russian bedroom, brown wallpaper, brown curtains. There was the heavy smell of Boris' pipe. Brown tobacco.

What with the snow and the interior decoration, life was even less fun than it usually was. Even Boris was getting boring.

"Alexei!"

Why did he dream so often about Mulder? What a waste of prime time dream space. The man was unattainable, even if he ever got within kissing distance of him again. It was as if a song had started up between them during the time they'd worked together and though by now the words no longer made any sense and most of the orchestra had gone home, the melody was still there, demanding to be played out to the end.

"Hello, little one." Boris loomed over him and at 6'7" he was very good at looming. He was pulling back the sheet that Krycek had thrown over himself in disgust. "Bet you can't wait to go out and build a snowman!"

"Go and boil your head." This was Krycek's favourite Russian phrase. It conjured up such a satisfying picture and Boris's head would take some boiling. But he really should try to be more charitable. Boris paid the rent after all. And he had brought him tea.

Krycek pulled himself up into a sitting position, lolling seductively against the bedhead. Boris was shaved and dressed, ready for work, and so that he could send him off with an erection that would bother him all day, Krycek said, "I could do with a really hard fucking."

Boris tut-tutted good naturedly. He enjoyed practising his English with Krycek, especially the colourful sort of English his lover spoke. He said very carefully, "You are incapable."

"I think you mean insatiable so I won't hold it against you."

* * *

Krycek's friend, Boris Yutkevitch, lived on the fifth floor of the apartment block. The lift had apparently suffered some sort of major breakdown. It looked a little pathetic, hanging disconsolately in the air between the first and second floors, indulging in some quiet Russian introspection. Mulder walked respectfully past it up the stairs.

The stairs were built of a dark wood, the walls were covered in brown wallpaper and the stair carpet was brown. Going through a severe Dostoyevsky phase in his teens, Mulder had always imagined Russian rooms to be brown. Did this mean then that Russians still boiled tea in samovars, drank cabbage soup, and had epileptic fits all over the place? It would be nice to know that some things never changed.

Someone was walking down the stairs towards him. A man in an enormous black coat that must have been incredibly expensive. He was over 6'5" and he would probably have had it specially made. He looked very slavonic, a great bear of a man, a poet perhaps, writing about death and the endless Russian steppes. He gave Mulder a cursory glance as he passed him. He was humming a tune to himself and Mulder experienced a sudden shock of recognition. Fanny Brice, 1936, "Cookin' Brekfist."

He moved on, unbuttoning his coat and jacket, loosening his shoulder holster, getting his gun ready. His heart was beating faster than the gentle slope of the stairs warranted. His body appeared to be reacting more with excitement than anger or fear at the prospect of seeing Alex Krycek again.

Where was that list? Well, he ought to be able to remember the first item anyway: He killed my father.

Did he? Krycek had said that he hadn't and although Alex rarely spoke the truth, he'd said he hadn't killed Melissa and that had turned out to be true.

Where was the rest of that damn list? Strange because his mind was usually so efficient at filing and retrieving information.

Okay, forget the list.

Say fucking bastard twenty times. In Russian.

* * *

A hot shower was one of the few things that made living in Russia tolerable for Krycek, even though St Petersburg water normally ran the colour of urine, on bad days running even darker as if passing from the kidneys of a sick horse that should be put out of its misery and shot. The thought of the steamy warmth of a shower was a great comfort and Krycek liked to indulge himself under it for as long as the hot water tank held out.

As usual, the dream about Mulder had manifested itself physically. Stepping under the water— a pleasant light yellow that morning—Krycek was busy working on a scenario that would bring him off as exquisitely as possible.

He never consciously indulged in thoughts of Mulder whilst fantasising. It was bad enough that his body reacted in such Pavlovian fashion to a stray thought of the man, it seemed gratuitous in the extreme to use him as a talisman for a good orgasm. Why, he'd be sending him fan letters next, going back to Washington and following him around, drooling like a puppy that hadn't tasted water for days.

From the seduction of male virgins—Krycek liked to boldly come where no man had gone before— to being gang raped by thugs, Alex's fantasies spanned the whole gamut of sexual activity. That morning his mood hung lazily around somewhere in between these two extremes.

As he soaped his body, closing his eyes, giving himself up to the moment, Krycek thought back to a handsome policeman he'd seen the day before. The man had been thick set, the curves and lines of his body showing through the uniform. He'd glanced briefly at Krycek's crotch which had made Alex want him at once. Pity he'd been standing in the middle of some crossroads, directing rush hour traffic, with both hands occupied. But there was a simple remedy for that. Krycek conjured up a scenario where the policeman found out where he lived by some mysterious means and he had invited the man in for a shower, as any sexually deviant and moderately insane person would.

The policeman was raring to go. His hands explored Krycek's wet soapy body, concentrating on his nipples and chest for a while. Krycek was soon gasping.

"What's your name?" he asked breathlessly.

"That information is classified," said the policeman, running a hand down Krycek's smooth flat stomach.

Oh trust me to conjure up a damn smartass policeman. Can't I even make a fantasy easy for myself?

"Well, I'm going to call you Ivan," Krycek moaned. His cock was surrounded by the policeman's large hand and he began thrusting into the grip. "Ivan Awfulhardon."

"Shut up, punk," said the policeman and pushed him hard against the tiles. Krycek's cheek and hip bones slammed against the enamel as two thick fingers forced their way inside him.

"Oh God!" Krycek cried out in delight. "You're an animal!"

* * *

Mulder stood in the hallway of Boris Yutkevich's apartment, pausing to get his bearings, his gun trained in front of him.

Breaking into the apartment had been easy. Embarrasingly easy, really. To begin with he adopted standard procedure by ringing the door bell and when nobody answered, he let standards go to hell and started picking the lock. Then he realised that the door had been unlocked all the time. They must be an honest crowd in St Petersburg. Touching.

Sounds of enthusiastic and energetic lovemaking greeted him as he made his way down the hall. Someone was having fun in the bath or the shower. The smell of tobacco hovered in the air so there had to be at least one other person besides Krycek in there — sometimes his powers of deduction knocked him off his feet. When he reached the bathroom door, an unaccountable element of good sense took hold of him, grabbing him metaphysically by the shoulder and holding him back. Matters were obviously attaining climactic proportions in there and two limp post coital men would be easier to handle than angry victims of coitus interruptus. He waited for the storm to abate.

Enhanced by the echo of the bathroom, the cries and groans seemed utterly uninhibited and compulsive. If one of the men hadn't been Krycek maybe he would have rushed in and joined them. His body was responding to the call anyway, though his mind was more concerned about Krycek's lover and whether he was built on the same proportions as the man with the coat. Krycek he could handle, the juggernaut he wasn't so sure about. Mulder planned his strategy, burst into the room, crouched at waist height and aimed his gun somewhere in between the bath and the shower.

It was an enormous, old fashioned bathroom, almost the size of his entire apartment, high ceilinged, the walls covered in cream tiles. In one corner was an old fashioned, rusting claw footed bath and the other corner was entirely devoted to the shower. From the little he could see through the curtain, the occupants seemed to be in an untidy heap on the tiled floor, recovering their breath.

"FBI!" Mulder shouted, his voice unnaturally loud and resounding off all four walls. "Put your hands in the air and come out of there!"

There was a slight scuffle on the floor and Krycek poked his head round the curtain. His face lit up like a child's at Christmas. "Mulder!" he said breathlessly. "Hey, it's good to see you!"

It was the last reaction from him that Mulder had anticipated and because of its spontaneity he was thrown into confusion. Why was it that Krycek always did this to him? Like some particularly perverse law of quantum physics, he was never the same, never did anything that was expected of him. Damn him. Mulder straightened up, taking a few paces forward.

"Get out from behind the curtain, Krycek! You and your friend."

Krycek suppressed a giggle. That wasn't expected either. In a minute, he might do a somersault in mid air, anything was possible. "My friend?"

"Yes, your friend, your lover, whatever, both of you out of there!"

"Do you mean Ivan?" Krycek was still suppressing laughter.

"I don't care if it's Peter llyich Tchaikovsky! Out!" In a gesture of delicacy, Mulder grabbed two towels and threw them across the room. They slapped against the shower curtain.

"Mulder, how can I tell you this? Ivan is a figment of my imagination, an autoerotic fantasy."

Now the boy was rambling. "Out, Krycek!" He made a no-nonsense gesture with his gun.

Krycek gave a little shrug, got to his feet unsteadily and wrapped a towel round his waist. He pushed the curtain completely aside. There was no-one else there. It took a moment for the significance of this to dawn on Mulder. It was impossible to credit all that noise and enthusiasm to one person. Jesus, what would he have been like if he'd had company in there? Me, for instance . No, strike that last thought from the record.

"Mulder, your face is a picture." Krycek was laughing at him. Had he no sense of shame? "Don't tell me you never indulge."

"Everyone indulges occasionally," Mulder replied with cool dignity, "but they don't usually make such a big production number out of it."

"That only indicates an abysmal and depressing lack of imagination."

Mulder was once more surprised by Krycek, this time by the beauty of his body. It was slender and well muscled, his arms and shoulders looked very strong, and the thought of what was hidden behind the towel put his temperature up several degrees. He reminded himself of the fact that this was the man who had deserted him and left him to die in the gulag. And that little item was only number 9 on his list. Mulder gestured for Krycek to move into the bedroom. "I haven't come all this way to discuss your weird sex life."

Krycek suddenly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "This place is bugged, Mulder. You're okay in here while the shower is running but not in there." He nodded towards the bedroom.

"Shut it, Krycek!" Defiantly, he switched off the shower and gave Alex's shoulder a push. Touching his wet naked skin sent a shock wave of desire through Mulder. He took a step back as if he'd touched a hot plate. "I've had enough of your damn stupid tricks. I want you dressed and ready to leave in five minutes." Was that too long? He didn't want to show the slightest hint of leniency. He wanted Krycek to know that this time—this time— things would be different. Fox Mulder was utterly and completely in charge of the situation. Absolutely. "No, make that three minutes."

"Then don't tell me I didn't warn you," Krycek whispered, so close to his ear that Mulder could feel the heat of his breath on his skin, the smell of sperm adding an additional frisson. Mulder watched Krycek saunter into the bedroom as if he hadn't a care in the world.

His tone had been so seductive that Krycek could have been making an indecent proposal instead of giving a warning. For the tenth time in as many minutes, Mulder wondered exactly what species Krycek could belong to, how his particular state of consciousness could possibly be defined. Any attempt to do so would probably end in madness. He followed him into the room, noting with some satisfaction that the colour scheme was brown.

Torn between a voyeuristic urge to see his ex-partner completely naked and the desire to appear utterly uninterested in the prospect, Mulder turned his face slightly to one side, while Krycek dried himself, and vaguely addressed the wall to his right.

"That scar on your left arm, Krycek, did someone try to cut it off?" He wanted to get the tone right, so that Alex might think he was disappointed that the attempt had failed.

"Yeah, they tried." From the corner of his eye, Mulder was aware that Krycek was pulling on his jeans. He made a mental note — with two heavy black asterisks—that Krycek had not bothered to put on any underwear. "You bungled my escape plan, Mulder, I was coming back for you later. You're so impatient."

Mulder gave one of his best sarcastic laughs, with a little contempt thrown in for good effect.

Krycek put on a white t-shirt. "I got lost in the woods. I was adopted by this weird little group who thought they could save everyone by cutting off their arms."

It was incredible how Krycek made it all sound as if he was an innocent in a fairy tale: I was walking through the woods, Mulder, following a trail of breadcrumbs, and I met this huge white rabbit...

"So how did you stop them?" This should be good. No, wait a minute, I can't resist this. "Don't tell me. The oily alien came back and grew you another arm. Peter the Great's ghost appeared just in time to frighten them off. Using the latest psychokenetic techniques, you not only thought yourself back an arm but it's a superarm as well, capable of withstanding temperatures of over 300 degrees centigrade."

Krycek was giving him a look of exaggerated patience. When he spoke, his voice had turned cold. "I had them all shot anyway."

Mulder felt his stomach lurch and twist. "What?"

"Well, what they did— it hurt," Krycek said as if that made it all right. He put on a grey sweater and reached for his black leather jacket.

"You cold blooded—"

"Only joking, Mulder." He paused, pulling on the jacket. "Or am I? You never know with me, do you."

Mulder's mind toppled over and then regained its equilibrium, leaving him with a feeling of nausea. Executioner, theatrical masturbator extraordinaire, comedian: would the real Alex Krycek stand up please?

"How was potty training for you, Krycek?"

Alex laughed delightedly. That wasn't supposed to happen either. Mulder reserved that line for psychological emergencies only, an unsophisticated ploy to reduce someone to a state of humiliation and confusion. "I loved it! Especially learning to retain it all until the very last possible moment."

"I always said you were full of crap." Mulder checked his watch. "Your time's up. I hope you packed your toothbrush."

A pair of beautiful green eyes gazed wistfully at him across the room. "You don't really think we're going anywhere, do you, Mulder?"

His hair was still cropped but he'd let it grow a little longer, a little softer. He was no longer scheming Krycek the Russian spy, or eager Krycek the partner, or frightened Krycek of Hong Kong, he was a bewildering amalgam of all three plus something more, the sum total of experiences that he'd had in the past four weeks. A fascinating, unexplored Krycek. Mulder's feelings seemed to border dangerously on regret but that wasn't possible—only a suicidal maniac would want to get to know Krycek better. "I'm taking you back to Washington, Krycek. As they say in the movies, they're going to throw the book at you."

Someone behind him barked an order in Russian. Mulder whirled round to face another Russian juggernaut, only this one wore a raincoat. It couldn't be cabbage soup that made these men so big...

Krycek grabbed him from behind in what seemed half wrestle, half embrace. Again the seductive voice breathed into his ear. "They've been waiting for you, Mulder, they put a 24 hour watch on this place. They thought you'd try and come back for me."

The juggernaut took Mulder's gun.

* * *

Mulder sat handcuffed in the back seat of the car with an armed Krycek at his side. Krycek and the juggernaut driver talked away to each other in Russian, maintaining eye contact in the car mirror.

He had no idea where they were taking him. He had no idea what they were saying, though he knew from his cursory Russian course on the plane what they were not saying. They were not calling each other bastards, talking about blow jobs or accusing one another of stealing tools.

He was constantly troubled by the thought that Krycek had actually warned him. Why would he do that? If Mulder had listened to him, he may still have been a free man. But then Krycek would know better than anyone that Mulder wouldn't believe a word he said, so warning him had effectively been the same as not warning him. All it had done was temporarily derange Mulder's mind and make him sit in the back of the car wasting good thinking time wondering why Krycek had done it. A mind game, that was all it was. And if he wanted to survive, he shouldn't be playing along with it.

No-one knew where he was. No-one would be looking for him. It was Saturday. What better way to spend a free weekend than chasing a psychotic killer around St Petersburg? He'd figured he'd be back by Sunday morning with Krycek in tow. If I come out of this alive, he promised himself, I will take on only those assignments which are given to me, I will spend my weekends feeding the fish and doing my laundry. I will not stray from my sofa except to eat and answer nature's call.

The car pulled to a halt. Krycek and the driver were laughing. Loosely translated, the laughter seemed to mean, "We are going to do something particularly nasty to Fox Mulder." He tensed as Krycek got out of the car, walked round to his side and opened the door.

"Walkies, Mulder!"

They were parked opposite a bleak looking alleyway, in a run down and deserted area. It was the kind of place you took someone to shoot them and leave the body to be found days, possibly weeks, later. Something in him protested at an ending like this. He got out of the car slowly, his mind racing.

Krycek leaned inside, said something in a very suggestive tone to the driver. More inscrutable Russian laughter. And then he and Krycek were walking away, down the alleyway, Krycek's hand on his elbow.

It had stopped snowing and there was a thaw on. Their footsteps sounded wet and slushy in the dying snow. When they reached midway down the alley, Krycek stopped and looked back to the car. They were out of sight of the driver, hidden by dumpsters and rubbish.

Not taking his eyes from Mulder's, Krycek lifted his gun higher, using it to push Mulder's coat and jacket open, then running the gun slowly and suggestively from mid chest down to his navel. Mulder could feel the chill of the steel through his shirt.

He tried to remember to keep breathing. "Guess you'll be going on to DC next and shooting my mother? Then you'll have managed singlehandedly to obliterate my entire family."

Krycek shook his head gently. "I told him I wanted to stop here because I needed to fuck you. Before we take you to HQ. We have 15 minutes. After that he'll start to get suspicious and call for back up." Unbelievably, Krycek holstered his gun and unlocked the handcuffs. He patted Mulder on the cheek in a cheery friendly manner. "Okay! Run!"

* * *

He could imagine the postcard:

Dear Scully,

I am having an interesting time here in St Petersburg. It is snowing again. My original plan may have been to bring Krycek back to Washington with me and put him in jail, but I don't want you to think I've gone completely out of my mind when I tell you I am now hiding in a hotel room with him and we are both on the run from the Agency for Federal Security. We are planning to escape from Russia together. At least I will have some interesting holiday photos. Please feed the fish for me.

Love, Mulder.

* * *

He thought at first that an earthquake was gripping the city in its jaws and shaking it about like a terrier with a rat. Then Krycek explained to him that the metro trains ran beneath the hotel.

When Mulder had expressed surprise at anyone actually opening a hotel in such an unsuitable location, Krycek had given him a pitying look and explained that of course it wasn't really a hotel, that was just a cover and only people as desperate as they were ever stayed there which cut down considerably on complaints to the management. It was, apparently, some sort of underground organisation, anti Agency for Federal Security, anti almost anything you cared to name as long as you had the right kind of money. And it seemed that he and Krycek had. It was Fox Mulder's bank account.

Zeitsev, the 'manager' of the place, was straight out of a Solzhenitzyn novel and claimed to know the writer personally. He'd escaped from countless Siberian prison camps. A master of disguise and a brilliant forger, he could arrange for anything they needed. Even if they wanted to travel back to the States as Daffy Duck and George III, he was the man to fix it — photographs, passports, tickets and transport. You want a diplomatic bag to go with the duck outfit? No problem.

Zeitsev looked rather like a mole, plump with squinting eyes and small round spectacles. Mulder imagined him at night, restless, unable to sleep, haunted by memories of Siberia, passing the time digging a network of tunnels that started under his bed and ran underneath the city: one to the food store, another to the laundry, one to the local video outlet.

Lying on one of the twin beds in their room, Mulder watched Krycek and Zeitsev making plans for their escape from St Petersburg. This time the Russian spoken was gentle, almost cosy, and Krycek would occasionally look over in his direction and translate what had been said for him. Mulder of course, had no guarantee of its accuracy but he appreciated the gesture anyway. It was always nice to know where your money was going. And his seemed to be going fast.

A stranger in a strange land, Mulder was finding himself uncomfortably reliant on Krycek's native sense, although sense was hardly a word commensurate with Alex Krycek and he wasn't so sure about the native bit either since Krycek had left Russia as a small child. Still, he had to admit that the fairy tale side of Krycek really seemed to have come up trumps this time. After all, he'd swept him up from the clutches of the Agency for Federal Security and was now arranging passage for him back to Washington. There was of course the possibility, well practically the certainty, that Krycek was following a personal agenda of his own but this would be revealed in time and Mulder was feeling so bemused by the events of the past hour that he could only deal with one thing at a time. He had his freedom, his gun and his wits. Both he and Krycek knew he was physically the stronger of the two. He could afford to play along for as long as things were going his way.

Like a video stuck on the replay mechanism, Mulder's mind kept reliving that extraordinary moment when he thought he was about to die. His cock had gone into immediate full alert at the touch of Krycek's gun running suggestively down his stomach and it hadn't really settled down properly yet, maintaining a constant interest in the sound of Krycek's husky voice. Mulder knew this meant he had a serious problem and that he should book in for psychiatric help as soon as his feet touched American soil but for the meanwhile he was fascinated by the sheer perversity of being so turned on by Krycek pointing a gun at him in a lewd and provocative manner, with the apparent intention of killing him. Interesting.

"That'll be another $500 for getting us across the border to Finland." Krycek was translating again. "Mulder?"

Mulder and his erection snapped to attention. "What? Oh yeah, okay." It was difficult to haggle over the cost of your own life. And there was something almost reassuring about the fact that keeping him alive was going to be so expensive.

* * *

Mulder decided that if only they could stop trying to kill one another, he and Krycek would make a wonderful couple. Though their relationship so far had consisted only of extremes, either being brought into intimate proximity or separated by thousands of miles, each time circumstances pushed them together they seemed to fall into an effortless routine, an unspoken acceptance of each other's rhythms.

That night, Mulder showered first, a routine adopted since the days when he was the senior partner. Krycek lay sprawled on one of the beds, reading a Solzhenitzyn novel (signed by the author) that Zeitsev had lent him.

Then it was Krycek's turn to shower and Mulder climbed into bed, taking up the novel where he'd left off, as if by some telepathic exchange he was already familiar with what Krycek had just read.

"I'm taking a shower with Ivan," Krycek announced mischieviously at the door of the bathroom. "Don't wait up." Mulder glared at him over the top of his glasses like a disapproving schoolmaster. "Well I hope you're both going to be a lot quieter than you were last time."

"The man's such an animal, it's impossible to be quiet."

"Oh for God's sake, Krycek, can't you control these weird and prurient fantasies of yours for a single night?"

Krycek smiled, the kind of evil smile that he gave people when they told him he could clean himself up in airport bathrooms. "What's the matter, Mulder? Jealous?"

"Jealous!" God, why am I getting so worked up about this? "Of someone who doesn't really exist?"

"Hey, don't knock it. You've made it your life's work to investigate similar phenomena."

Mulder put down the book. "Why, you little bastard..."

Krycek grinned and closed the door to the bathroom behind him.

One day , Mulder thought, I am going to shoot him and do society a very great favour.

He heard the shower starting to run and moments later a gentle moan. Oh no, don't do this to me. He tossed the book onto Krycek's bed, buried himself under the covers and slammed a pillow over his ear. He thought about having all his teeth extracted, slowly, one by one. Without anaesthetic. 

* * *

I'm so cold and it isn't even snowing in here. I have all my clothes on and I'm still cold. Something makes me kneel down, I'm on all fours and then it starts. That terrible feeling as if my brain is forcing its way through my eye sockets. I'm vomiting through my tear ducts and my nose. A spasm goes through my body and the oil is being forced out of me, the sensation is horrific, I try to scream but I'm scared it'll come up through my throat and choke me. I'm blinded and crying black oil...

"Krycek?"

He was kneeling on all fours on his bed, giving out groans that sounded as if he was in labour. In the dismal early morning light, he appeared to be trying to vomit.

"Krycek!" Mulder climbed out of bed and moved towards him. "What is it?"

As soon as he touched him, Krycek snapped awake with a whimper. "Christ! Mulder, is that you?"

"Yes, I'm here, it's okay."

"Where am I?"

"St Petersburg. Comrade Zeitsev's charming residence."

Krycek was shaking uncontrollably. "I'm all right, I'm okay." He shrugged Mulder's hand away and lay back down in his bed.

Mulder got back into his own bed, watching helplessly as Krycek and the bedcovers continued to shake.

"You will read that damn Solzhenitzyn angst before going to sleep."

"Nag, nag, nag."

"What the hell were you dreaming about so that I can make sure never to do the same?"

"Nothing."

A metro train rumbled along underneath them and the whole room shook as violently as Krycek, so that he seemed for a few blessed moments to be still.

"There's something I need to know, Krycek. Did you plan all this to happen like it is?"

Krycek was silent for some time. When he finally spoke, his teeth were chattering so hard that he sounded as if he'd taken a dip in ice cold water. "Strange as it may seem, Mulder, I haven't quite mastered the art of omnipresence, though I am working hard on it. I hate to break this to you but the galaxies and the planets and the stars are all moving around in the cosmos independent of my desires."

"Well that's the best news I've heard all week. Okay, let's put it another way: why do you want to leave Russia?"

"You've been here for a few hours now. Wouldn't you?"

"Tired of pretending to be a Agency for Federal Security agent, huh?"

"Yeah, the same way I got tired of pretending to be an FBI agent."

"Who are you really working for, Krycek?" It was worth a try, maybe he was in the mood to talk about it.

"Myself. I like the hours, the terms and conditions."

Maybe not.

Mulder watched him as he turned over and curled himself into a tight little ball. His knees must have been under his chin. He was still shaking, but less violently. "Hey, Krycek, is that damn Ivan of yours really a figment of your imagination or did you base him on someone you know?"

"Stop being a psychologist trying to take my mind off things."

"Godammit, I'm not being a psychologist, I'm being a self-interested pervert. I'm very seriously considering taking up this hobby of yours."

He was silent for so long that Mulder thought he was being shut out again. Then finally, Krycek said with some reluctance, "I saw this policeman. Directing traffic."

"What's he like?"

The silence was shorter this time. "Massive. Brutal. He calls me Punk."

"What does he do to you?"

"He makes me tell him how much I want him. He's crazy about me but he can't cope with those feelings so he gets angry."

Apparently the FBI agent in us never dies. He's even formed a little profile for his fantasy lover. "Nothing too subtle about your fantasy then."

"I suppose yours will have to be peppered with delicate Jungean archetypes."

Krycek must have been feeling better. "Why do you get turned on by a rape fantasy?"

"It's not rape." Krycek sighed and there was strength behind the sigh. He'd stopped shaking. "It's hard and dirty and a little sado-masochistic, but it's not rape."

Mulder supposed there had to be some distinction there that he was missing. He'd give it more consideration in the morning. "Yes," he said sleepily, "but why do you like it like that?" And would you, he wanted to ask, be turned on if I used a gun to draw a line from your chest to your navel?

There was no answer. Talking about Ivan had removed Krycek from his nightmare world into a world of far sweeter dreams.

* * *

Krycek woke to the unfamiliar sounds of cosy domesticity. Mulder was making them tea. God, he'd be a fantastic husband for someone. Sleepily, Krycek watched the long slender fingers as they poured the milk, hesitated over the sugar bowl, that wonderful mind digging about in its memory to check whether Krycek liked sugar or not, coming up with the correct answer and dropping three lumps into the cup.

It was like admiring a beautiful painting. Study in Blue Boxer Shorts. Those broad strong shoulders that Krycek longed to sink his teeth into, the graceful line of the limbs, the amazing curve of the buttocks. David Hockney, eat your heart out.

They were leaving for Helsinki that evening, as soon as darkness fell. Krycek had less than seven hours to seduce him.

"What are you smiling at?" Mulder handed him a cup.

"Nothing." Thank God he wasn't psychic. "Thanks, Mulder."

They drank together in comfortable silence for a while. Then Mulder asked, "Where are you planning to go when we get to Helsinki airport?"

"I thought we had a truce."

"We do have a truce. You've stuck your neck out for me —though it's probably for your own devious little ends—and if you get me safely to the airport, I'm going on to JFK and then Washington. You're free to go on to wherever you like. I was only asking out of curiosity."

Krycek gave him a bitter-sweet smile, saccharine not sugar. "I'm not telling you. You might try to trace me later."

"Of course." Mulder smiled back, such a rare treat, if only he had a camera he could keep the picture for rainy days. And there would be plenty of them.

"Actually I haven't decided yet anyway. It doesn't make much difference, does it." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

Mulder looked incredulous. "Of course it makes a difference where you live. We all need a place where we can shut the door on the world and feel safe."

"That's funny coming from you, Mulder. The rate people break in and out of your apartment, it's like feeling safe in Grand Central Station."

Mulder gave a gentle laugh. "I like Grand Central Station. Anyway, I feel safe in my own apartment, fragile though that safety may be."

"I envy you." Krycek looked intently into Mulder's eyes. "I don't feel safe anywhere. Wherever I live will just be another address." He could see Mulder getting ready to analyse him again — is that the start of some dissociative disorder or simply incipient depression?—so he drank his tea quickly, pulled on his jeans and headed for the bathroom to relieve himself.

He wasn't at all prepared for what he saw when he came out again. Mulder, still in the boxer shorts he'd slept in, waiting for him, pointing a gun at him. Oh God, what have I said this time?

"Okay, Mulder, if it means that much to you, of course it makes a difference where you live. Get me a map and I'll work on it right away."

Mulder's face was impassive, difficult to read. "Shut up," he said. And on the heels of that, "Punk."

Krycek frowned. Surely he couldn't really have heard correctly. "What did you say?"

"I said punk." Mulder was easing closer. "Where the hell have you been?"

Good grief, obviously the St Petersburg water doesn't agree with him. Well let's face it, it didn't do Tchaikovsky much good either. Maybe I should ask Zeitsev to get a doctor?

"Mulder, are you okay?"

Mulder grabbed him by the arm and threw him down on the bed. "Mulder? Who's Mulder? The guy you stood me up for last night?" He knelt down on the bed, either side of Krycek's thighs, pinning him down.

Christ, is he...?

"The name's Ivan, in case you forgot. Say it for me, punk."

He is! Krycek stared back at Mulder in complete astonishment. Mulder slapped him across the face hard enough to cause a stinging pain.

Jesus! This man gets my vote for the next Academy Award. Krycek's body reacted to the blow as if Mulder had kissed him. He felt hot pleasure travelling at the speed of light down his spine.

"Say it!"

"Ivan! I'm sorry. Ivan."

"Damn right, you'll be sorry. Suck my gun."

"What?" Holy shit, even I hadn't thought of that one.

"Suck it."

Mulder ran the end of the gun barrel along Krycek's lips, pushing them apart. Krycek took it into his mouth, running his tongue suggestively over the tip and then putting his lips round it, taking it all in. Mulder moved the barrel in and out of his mouth, mimicking sex. Krycek writhed helplessly underneath him, wickedly excited.

"I'm capable of pulling the trigger, you know that, don't you, punk?"

Krycek nodded. He stared up into Mulder's eyes. They were black with desire, he seemed as excited as Krycek was. He'd never looked more beautiful to Alex. If he was going to die now, this would be the way he'd like to go, looking up into Mulder's amazing eyes, being fucked in the mouth by his gun.

When it was pulled away, Krycek only had time to feel a short stab of disappointment, for the gun was replaced quickly by Mulder's lips. Krycek sucked on Mulder's tongue in the same way he'd sucked on the barrel, greedily, feverishly, their saliva blending in an interesting mixture of metal and tea.

When Mulder broke away, leaning back on his haunches again, he was panting heavily. Using his gun, he traced a line down Krycek's cheek.

"Tell me you want me to kiss you again," Mulder/Ivan said.

"Kiss me." The gun was moving down his neck now.

"Kiss me what, punk? Where are your manners?"

"Please. Kiss me, please."

"That's better." Mulder leaned forward to kiss him again. Their tongues played and pushed against each other. Krycek ran his hands over Mulder's back, digging his fingers into the muscles, trying to pull him down to him. But Mulder broke away again.

"Not so fast. Tell me you want me to suck your nipples."

Christ. "Please. I want you to suck my nipples."

The gun travelled down his chest to both nipples, where it drew a circle round the hard little buds and flicked them. Each time Krycek drew in a sharp ragged breath and arched his back sluttishly. Oh my God, when have I ever been so turned on by anybody in my life? By the time Mulder's tongue was following the trail blazed by the gun, Krycek was moaning uncontrollably, twisting under his tormentor like a flame. When Mulder took each nipple into his mouth and sucked at it hard, Krycek let out a throaty groan. He couldn't take much more of this.

"Oh God, Ivan, please, I need you so bad, fuck me."

Mulder looked up at him. Sweat was showing on Mulder's forehead and upper lip. Surely he couldn't take much more either. "Take off your jeans."

Krycek willingly pulled them off. His erection was burning hot, jumping in anticipation. Mulder stared down at it lasciviously. No, surely he wouldn't. The gun travelled the length of his stomach. Oh yes, he would. Krycek felt the steel against the base of his cock, round his tight aching balls and then it was running up and down his length. He cried out shamelessly, gripping at the sheets. This was almost too much to bear.

"How much do you want me, punk?"

Oh please, don't expect me to be able to talk. "Badly," was all Krycek could manage.

Then Mulder put down the gun and roughly turned him over and suddenly he was all over him, kneading the muscles of his back and arms til it hurt, biting the back of his neck and his earlobes. It was hard to hang on to the fact that this was the first time they'd made love. The fantasy had set them both off, it seemed as much Mulder's as it was his. Alex hadn't realised that underneath that trust no-one facade, the expensive terrible ties, and the incessant monotone, there was a delightfully imaginative and generous lover with a mind as sick as his own. What a marvellous surprise. Krycek was wailing helplessly into the pillow. He could feel Mulder's erection throbbing through the boxers.

"You're a slut," Mulder was panting, "you're just a damn slut."

"Yes." I'll agree to anything you say, I'll sign the rest of my life over to you. Show me the dotted line. Give me a pen.

Mulder pulled away a little and two fingers forced their way inside him. "God!" Krycek cried out in delight. "You're an animal! I love it!" Mulder knew what he was doing. In spite of his obvious excitement, he'd been thoughtful enough to collect some of his own pre-ejaculate as lubricant and soon his fingers were slipping easily in and out, rubbing over Krycek's prostate, pinning up his desire a few notches higher. Krycek hung there, trembling on the edge. Something monumentous was about to happen. He hoped his nervous system could take it. After all this time, after all that longing, Fox Mulder, his ex-partner and long term enemy, was about to fuck him. Not only fuck him, but play out his current favourite fantasy with him. Had the world gone completely mad?

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, punk," Mulder was breathing in his ear. There was a sudden shock of pain as he pushed inside, too excited to take it gently, and besides Krycek could appreciate that it would have been out of character to do it any other way. "I'm going to fuck you raw."

Jesus Christ! Alex grabbed wildly at each side of the mattress, hanging on for dear life as Mulder rammed into him, driving with an intense animal rhythm. Each brutal thrust forced Krycek's erection deep into the mattress, pounding against the springs, bringing him closer to orgasm. Each time Mulder slammed into him there was the resounding slap of flesh against flesh, and a wild answering cry from Krycek.

"Tell me how much you want me, punk!" Mulder's voice was little more than a groan.

"Need you..." Krycek wailed out. "Need you so bad. Needed..." Just a moment, that was close, that was out of line. He felt orgasm rising powerfully and relentlessly, it was going to be so ferocious that he'd probably die anyway. What the hell, he wanted to give all of himself for once. "Needed you —for so long!"

He felt Mulder take his hand and squeeze it. And then Krycek was coming hard and wild, screaming into the pillow, and Mulder's free arm was round his waist, supporting and embracing him tightly while he climaxed.

Half mad with orgasm, Alex couldn't be sure, but he thought that when Mulder came inside him the man was sobbing with pleasure. 

* * *

Hours later, Mulder found himself coming out of yet another glorious post-coital haze. He kept losing track of how many times they'd made love, his location, the time, the day of the week. Well, it wasn't that important anyway.

All that mattered was well within his grasp.

Sex with Krycek was a mind blowing experience, wild, hot and dirty. It had been everything he had hoped it wouldn't be, and now it was exactly as he had feared— sex with anyone else was going to be a pedestrian affair at the very most. A depressing thought, considering that the lover who so efficiently and effectively set fire to his loins would soon be leaving him. Before this, Mulder had always thought of sex as something he was either having or not having. Mostly not having. But sex seemed to be a state of being with Krycek, it was in his eyes, the way he moved, in everything he did. With him, Mulder was in an almost permanent state of voluptuous arousal.

Krycek's skin was deliciously soft and slick. He lay exhausted over Mulder's prone body, his head resting on Mulder's chest, droplets of sweat occasionally falling off him onto Mulder's skin. Glorious. Mulder felt an exhilarating sense of achievement. I did that, I fucked him senseless, I've temporarily reduced him to this state, it was me.

Mulder ran his fingers lazily through Alex's short wet hair. He smelt of Mulder and Mulder smelt of him. So intimately connected. According to quantum law, even while they lay there, doing nothing, Krycek was breathing out molecules of himself which Mulder was inhaling into himself. And vice versa. Maybe if they stayed like this for a year, they'd look like twins. Imagine the confusion. It would be interesting, to say the least.

"I can feel you thinking," Krycek murmured. "Stop it."

"I know. It's a thoroughly disgusting habit of mine."

"Thankfully it's not your only one."

A metro train passed along underneath them. The room shook, something in the bathroom fell off the edge of a shelf.

"Well the earth moved for me," Krycek said, "how about you?"

Mulder chuckled and held him tighter. He had been converted that day to making love in a single bed. The idea had never particularly appealed before but now it was charged with erotic appeal. But then he had to bear in mind that Krycek could charge anything with erotic appeal.

"Alex, were you and Boris lovers?"

Krycek sighed. "He paid the rent."

Mulder detected yet another erotic bouquet. "So you were literally his rent boy, then?"

"Something like that."

"So do you have a lover? Somewhere?"

"Why do you keep asking all these questions?"

"When have you known me do anything else?"

"Christ, you even answer a question with another one. You're impossible." With great effort, Krycek raised himself on one elbow and looked down at Mulder, smiling affectionately. "No I do not have a lover, anywhere. What about you?"

"No, I don't either."

"Right, well, that's established that then. Next question?"

"How do you know I have one?"

"With you it's as inevitable as breathing in and out."

"Will you come back to Washington with me, Alex?" He took a deep breath. "I know this sounds crazy, but now that this has happened, everything seems so different. I can find you a safe house while we sort things out. I know you've got charges of espionage to face but you also have valuable information to bargain with. Tit for tat. Happens all the time. Who knows, maybe the two of us could even get that black lunged bastard put behind bars."

Lost in his impassioned little speech, Mulder had hardly noticed Krycek climbing out of the bed. Now he was pulling on his clothes. How quickly life seems to disintegrate about us.

"What's the matter, Alex?"

Krycek pulled the white t-shirt over his head. It was like a re-run of an earlier scene, only now he knew the body in front of him intimately. "I knew you believed in some incredible stuff, Mulder, but I had no idea you'd completely lost touch with reality." He was pulling on his jeans, not an easy job considering how wet his body was. "Don't you have any idea how dangerous it would be for me to come back to Washington?"

Mulder sat helplessly on the edge of the bed, wanting to take Alex in his arms but afraid to touch him. "Seems to me it's pretty dangerous for you to go back anywhere you've been. Surely you're running out of places to make a new start, unless you're considering a new career as an eskimo or a Benedictine monk."

"You always have some smartass answer, don't you."

"Well, Alex, that's rich, coming from you."

Krycek opened the bedroom door. "I'm going to see Zeitsev. Check that all the arrangements are made. We'll be leaving in a couple of hours."

* * *

Krycek sat huddled on the dark stairs leading to the hotel basement, his arms wrapped round his knees. He stared ahead at nothing, rocking gently backwards and forwards.

The moment he started hoping, he was finished. In fact, it was strange how much it hurt when he had started to hope, even just for a brief moment, back there with Mulder. He'd been running on empty for so long, it just seemed like second nature now. It was as if something rusted inside him had been cranked up and forced briefly to start working —though it was so obviously beyond repair. Resignation and acceptance, those were the important lessons life had taught him over the past few years, and in some curious way, they were what made it worth living.

Mulder's little joke about becoming a monk hadn't been so funny after all. He was almost halfway there.

* * *

In spite of the fact that Krycek had had something to do with it, the journey went smoothly enough and exactly as planned.

Right on time, Zeitsev had backed his lorry into the little courtyard of the hotel and thus hidden from the road, he and Krycek had climbed into the back and closed the doors.

There were a couple of mattresses on the floor of the lorry, pillows and blankets. Thermos flasks, sandwiches, beer, little cakes. Everything for their comfort. Mulder found himself wondering who had thought of these nice domestic touches — Zeitsev or Krycek?

An hour or so into the journey, when the cold began to bite, he realised the touches had nothing to do with domesticity but everything to do with survival. He felt grateful for the thick pullover that Zeitsev had given him. He wondered how cold Krycek was feeling. He was huddled up inside one of the blankets and Mulder longed to get inside there with him and keep him warm. But something held him back, things were no longer the same.

Krycek had come back to him in the hotel room, subdued and cautious, but he'd come back. They lay on the bed together for comfort, not making love, holding one another like two prisoners awaiting sentence.

Mulder blamed himself furiously. What the hell had he been thinking, making that ridiculous little speech? Well that was the problem, wasn't it, he hadn't been thinking, ever since he'd had his cock up Krycek's ass. Asking Krycek to come back to Washington with him was tantamount to asking him to commit suicide. And the idea of him and Krycek and a happy ending was as ludicrous as "Brief Encounter" with a happy ending. Scene: Celia Johnson sits in the waiting room, gently weeping into her British Rail tea. Enter Trevor Howard. "I've decided not to take that job abroad after all, old girl. Let's run away together!" Cut! Stupid, stupid.

They crossed over the border into Finland with no problems. Apparently Zeitsev knew one of the guards, well enough to bribe him with Mulder's $500 and to remind him of the fact that Zeitsev knew he had made his own sister pregnant the year before. It seemed a sordid kind of transaction but Mulder was in no position to quibble.

They spent the first part of the journey dozing, eating, and drinking, hardly saying a word to each other. In a way it was as well that they weren't in the mood for a long philosophical discussion because the noise in the back of the lorry was mind-numbingly awful. It sounded as if they were travelling in the company of thousands of separate nuts and bolts. Mulder hoped rather selfishly that the lorry would stay in one piece until they reached Helsinki.

Hours later, waking out of a fitful dose, Mulder checked his watch and felt definite symptoms of an anxiety attack starting. He moved over to where Krycek was dozing under his blanket.

"Alex?"

"Mmmmm?" He looked delightfully sleepy.

"We're going to be in Helsinki in about four hours' time."

"What?" He was suddenly awake. Was that a look of panic in those fawn-eyes? At any rate, they were wide open and unblinking, staring into his own with an unnerving intensity.

"I have a confession to make, Alex. I have this fantasy about doing the wild thing in the back of a lorry."

* * *

As they lay in yet another post-coital stupor in the back of the rattling lorry, Mulder considered how successful his attempt had been to get them back to intimacy once again. Krycek appeared to need Mulder as badly as Mulder needed him, with as little resistance to Mulder's suggestions as Mulder had to his. Sexually, at least, they were perfect for each other.

Maybe the future wasn't so bleak after all. He could spend his free time conjuring up the most depraved and lurid fantasies and then phone Alex in Spain or Greenland or wherever the hell he was, giving him the scenario across thousands of miles. Then he would wait for the whole thing to take effect like some sort of potent chemical mixture. They could be together in under twelve hours, maybe even six.

Dream on, Mulder. Try another re-write. How about 'Tale of Two Cities'? Sydney Carton keeps his head and gets the girl.

Krycek squeezed his hand reassuringly as if he understood his thoughts. He opened one of the flasks and gave Mulder some coffee. After a few sips, Mulder found he couldn't keep his eyes open and fell comfortably asleep on Krycek's chest.

Then someone was shaking him awake. It was Zeitsev.

"Mr Mulder. Helsinki."

He was lying on one of mattresses. Krycek was gone. Mulder sat up quickly and wished he hadn't. When he had everything back in focus again, he asked, "Where's Krycek?"

Zeitsev shrugged wistfully. He wished he knew, he seemed to be saying. Well, Mulder could take an educated guess. The little bastard had drugged him and jumped off the truck soon afterwards. Mulder scrambled to his feet, shoved open the lorry door and yelled "Alex!". They were in the car park of the airport. It was broad daylight and Mulder blinked frantically into the sunlight. A woman and child passed by, looking at him as if he might be very dangerous. He didn't care. "Alex!" He felt Zeitsev taking his arm, talking to him soothingly in Russian as if it was about time he had another sedative.

Blindly, Mulder collected his things, shook Zeitsev's hand and tried to convey his thanks. Then he walked into the airport. He must somehow have managed to buy himself a ticket, to have waited at the correct gate for the next plane to New York.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, he was strapping himself into his seat. It would be an enormous relief when the plane took off and he could relinquish this constant absurd idea to stay behind and stage some kind of one man search for Krycek.

Part of him was aware that Alex had probably acted wisely, avoiding a painful scene and the possibility of Mulder following him, while the other part of him wanted to shoot Alex for leaving him like that. Someone sat down next to him. Mulder was vaguely aware of a black leather jacket. Oh no, he thought, this is too much, I'm going to have to move, I'm not sitting in this plane inhaling the smell and hearing the sound of leather, I'm in no mood for torture.

A familiar husky voice breathed into his ear. "I stole this from your pocket." It was Krycek. He gave Mulder back his handkerchief. Mulder sat staring at him wordlessly. "I don't suppose you had time to visit Dostoyevsky's house on Kuznechniy Pereulok while you were in St Petersburg?" Krycek was strapping himself into the seat. "It's now a museum. Every day the curator puts a glass of strong tea on Dostoyevsky's desk in memory of him. I've always found that idea rather touching. That's why I took your handkerchief. I wanted something to remember you by that I could look at and touch each day. Then I thought to myself, Alex, what the hell are you doing? Dostoyevsky's dead, Mulder's still alive, let's make the most of him while we can."

Mulder found his voice. "You make it sound as if I haven't got much longer to go."

"Well you've probably got longer than I have anyway," Krycek said cheerfully. "Maybe I got it the wrong way round. Maybe you should make the most of me while you can. Anyway, you can relax now you've got your handkerchief back."

"Getting my handkerchief back means more to me than words can say, Alex." Mulder put it in his coat pocket and held it for a moment. Maybe Trevor Howard shouldn't have taken that job abroad after all.

end...

* * *

This originally appeared in eXposure, the X Files fanzine.   
Mulder/Krycek slash fiction.   
---


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